


consolation

by stubborn_jerk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Footnotes, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Humor, Nonbinary Character, powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubborn_jerk/pseuds/stubborn_jerk
Summary: “Thatwasthe best course, wasn’t it?”“If it wasn’t, the Almighty wouldn’t have given him the option, angel. We already know how this works. The rest of it is out of our hands.”Every godparent's gotta give their godchildren a gift, right?





	consolation

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came to me in a hazy 3am daydream

It started, as all things start, with a belief.

See, as every non-occult/ethereal being is aware of, human babies do not, in fact, come to the world ripe with the power to destroy it. It builds up as they grow, with their dreams, choices, intentions.

This is regardless of Yeshua*, who was born into a manger with lightshows and shepherds scared shitless and kings travelling with gifts. Thousands of years before the End of Times, the son of the Almighty was delivered with enough fanfare to attract the suspicions of secret service men, had they existed at the time.

[*Or ʿĪsā or Jesus. **

** Different names for the same entity is something God, ethereal, and occult beings were used to. Crowley, of course, failed to teach the apostles this because he kept getting soused before even attempting to talk about Yeshua, and Aziraphale had been in charge of trying to quell the dissent that came from the aftermath of Yeshua’s death.]

Eleven years before Armageddon, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was not at all like this. He was not conceived and delivered in a womb and greeted with tidings and good fortune, but snapped into existence in a hamper and passed between demons and nuns like dishes that needed washing.

As a demon and an angel may be aware of and have forgotten since*, this difference in circumstances sets up an ineffable forking path of potential, a series of choices that could lead a human baby into the hands of either Good or Evil, but never both. Grooming and nurture, as Crowley would say, makes the child. _It is the upbringing that’s important._ Humans are flexible that way.

[*1035 is a very long time from 2001 so it is unsurprising, as both angel and demon had Priorities.]

Crowley was rather Fallible. This was proven the first time he sauntered vaguely downwards*. Like the humans he was most fond of, he forgets that this was the case since the beginning**.

[*He tripped.

**Not the Beginning, but early enough. Eleven years before Armageddon enough.]

And so, as the game began, Crowley continued to forget, inadvertently dragging Hell and Aziraphale into his faith that the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was not to be messed with despite his initial humanity.

It starts with this belief. And so, another different kind of game, one that amuses the Almighty frighteningly so, began.

* * *

The American Cultural Attaché’s household was not typical of an English household today, but to an angel and a demon from the Beginning, it was a matter of rolling back two centuries’ worth of memories before it was as close to normal as they got. Nanny Ashtoreth Crowley and Brother Francis Fell slipped into their roles not unlike the Serpent of Eden had unto the Eastern Wall—with general ease and fluttering nerves for the days ahead.

The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness—otherwise known on his birth certificate as Warlock—was not a month old when they began their service to the Dowlings.

Three months in, though, his powers came in.

It was a split-second thing, unnoticeable to the Secret Service men in the manor, but Crowley noticed and _knew_.

On one of their strolls out, on one of Nanny’s afternoons off, Harriet Dowling had grabbed the Warlock-filled pram and went to check on the ever-expansive back courts. She could have sworn she’d missed the steps down in the garden when she had the accident.

“I swear I didn’t mean to but my heel, see?” She gestured to her shoe that evening, the varnish visible as the heel swayed to and fro in all its broken glory. Crowley winced in genuine sympathy, hearing the crack even as he stared at the aftermath of the incident*.

[*This was precisely why Nanny wore flats.]

Harriet gingerly put it back down, glancing at the baby monitor. Warlock slept on. Crowley gave it his own customary glance, feeling just a bit envious of the slumbering Antichrist but, well, if needs must.

He and Harriet were having one of their biweekly* nightcaps, sharing a bottle of port in her suite’s anteroom. These would end either when Thaddeus came a-calling or when Harriet was toeing the line between tipsy and absolutely sloshed** and Crowley had to tuck her in***.

[*It depended on Harriet if ‘biweekly’ meant twice a week or once every two weeks. Not that Crowley minded. The wine wasn’t as good as when his drinking partner was Aziraphale, but it was just a matter of a glance and an amicable smile at Harriet.

**Crowley had never once been soused around a human and so he kept himself satisfied with one never-ending glass of wine through these evenings.

***This was only sometimes a nonvenereal occurrence. This evening was one of those.]

“It got caught in one of those godforsaken stone tiles out in the garden. You know the ones.” She huffed, blowing a hair back into place with one puff of air. “While we were falling, and I _swear_ we were falling, I let go of him for just a second. My heart literally skipped a beat, but then—”

But then the ground evened out, just in time to catch the pram and Harriet as Warlock wailed on in his surprise and bewilderment of the sudden rollercoaster ride and Harriet sat shell-shocked on the decade-old tiles on the back courts*.

[*Nodding to himself that both mother and child were alright, Brother Francis grabbed his book and went back to reading.]

It was a small incident, but it was the kind of thing Crowley expected from the Antichrist. He brought the wine to his lips and restrained himself from miracling the bottle full. Harriet forgot about the incident when Nanny tucked her in as well, that evening.

That weekend, he leaned in close to whisper it to the angel as the scenes changed on one of the funnier productions of _Much Ado About Nothing_ he’d insisted they go to. Imperceptible to others but a red flag to Crowley, the corner of the angel’s mouth twitched down in a put-upon frown as he finished his telling.

Aziraphale couldn’t verbally respond until the intermission*. When he did, he turned in his seat with a hand to his chin, arm on the rest between their seats. Aziraphale muttered, “It’s worrying but, Crowley dear, it’s not as… indicative of his morality. Young Master Warlock is barely old enough to make Choices like that. It’s a simple power reflex I’m sure, like a hammer to the knee.”

[*He squeezed at the armrest between them, scratching at the leather with well-kept nails in the meantime. Crowley, on the other hand, slouched back in his seat to hide his worry, as he often did to hide a lot of things.]

And that was all that was said about it.

Until.

* * *

Aziraphale knew the gardens by now, four years into this false identity. He knew the schedules of the men patrolling the manor 24/7, knew when the cook took out the rubbish and compost, knew when the help liked to smoke out back*. But, things change, as humans are wont to do with their cycles. Since graduating his pram days, Brother Francis’ time with Warlock shifted from afternoon to mornings, when there was still dew on the grass and the animals were amicable on the grounds.

[*Because sometimes, he smoked with them.]

So, three on the dot, Nanny brought Warlock out of the manor for a stroll. Not in one of those infernal leashes he frequently spotted in Hyde Park*. No, together, the demon and the Antichrist toured the grounds every afternoon, talking in hushed tones and mischievous smiles between them. Sometimes Warlock would run ahead in his rush to tell Nanny a story, sometimes he’d pull Nanny along as their hands swung between them.

[*Crowley _allegedly_ had nothing to do with those.]

Rarely would there be companionable silences and never has Aziraphale seen the Antichrist lag.

Until.

As he trimmed the bushes, he glanced at the pair.

Nanny had forged on ahead, trailing a finger over shifting bushes as she passed—no doubt talking to the plants again. Warlock was stuck a metre behind her, and a metre above as well, as he sullied his khakis to climb one of the trees on the path.

Now, according to the updated Arrangement, Aziraphale was not allowed to interfere when Nanny was guarding Warlock. As a rule, Crowley was also against the babying of the Antichrist.

“If he’s going to grow normal,” Crowley groused over coffee. “He’s going to experience _everything_. And if he’s going to hurt himself, he heals himself. So, no miracles, no meaningful looks. Let him cry and let him stumble. He’ll stand back up.”

When Aziraphale tried to compliment him for his rhetoric, Crowley slouched away from his wandering hand, waving it away not unlike a sulking teenager.

So, when a loud _snap_ and _thud_ sounded in the air, it took _everything_ in Aziraphale’s being not to reach out, crouching down behind the bush to have some measure of deniability*.

[*Unfortunately, this meant he didn’t see Crowley give the ground Warlock was about to drop on a rather meaningful glare.]

“Nanny!”

Flats scraped against stone tiles. “Stand up now, there’s a love. You hurt?”

Aziraphale peeked over the bushes.

Nanny didn’t mind getting her overcoat dress dirtied as she knelt by Warlock, pulling him up by the armpits to stand. Warlock blinked away tears, but shook his head with a shaky lower lip and determination.

“What happened?” came Nanny’s concerned tone. Aziraphale knew it long enough to know it was genuine. “Did you fall?”

Warlock nodded.

Nanny tutted. “Let me see, then. Are there any scars? Hands, knees.”

Warlock extended his palms as Nanny pulled his khakis up. There were no scars, no bleeding. Aziraphale knew there was supposed to be. That was a very solid _thud_.

“Very well, then, stick close to Nanny, alright? If you want to learn to climb trees, you’ll have to ask someone else. I’m afraid we’ve passed my tree-climbing days.”

“Brother Francis?”

“If you must.” There was a measure of humour in Nanny’s response that had Aziraphale’s hackles rising. He can _too_ climb trees. It wasn’t something one just forgot.

Warlock scanned the shrubbery, then brightened as he spotted Aziraphale. “Brother Francis!”

Aziraphale gathered himself, then gave a hearty laugh as he jumped to stand. “Young Master Warlock! You’ve spotted me!”

“Did you see, did you see me climb?”

“I most certainly did. Why, if I try to teach you, you might be able to teach me more!” Warlock giggled as he chuckled. Moment passing, he took on a more serious tone. “You took quite the fall there, little one. Good thing about Nanny, eh?”

Warlock smiled, shaking his head. “I’m fine! No scars, not hurt!”

“That’s good to hear!” Aziraphale nodded. He gave Nanny a glance. Imperceptible to others but a red flag to Aziraphale, Nanny’s tinted smile twitched briefly.

After supper that night, Aziraphale heated up some tea in his quarters, good for two. At nine, Crowley came in, already down to his robes and night dress, hair combed down from the pins, makeup off. If he’d grown his hair past his shoulders, he might just remind Aziraphale of the days of the Eastern Wall.

“Take a seat, dear, I know how bad those flats are for your feet.”

Crowley sank down on the couch by his bed, accepting the chamomile with a grimace.

“He healed himself,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Sure that wasn’t you?” Crowley cradled the chipped mug between his hands, his nail polish very clearly chipped as he tapped a beat on the material.

Aziraphale hummed in affirmation. “I wasn’t even looking.”

Crowley slouched, which should have been alarming, had Aziraphale known what kind of worry Crowley was hiding from him. They sipped their tea in companionable silence until the grandfather clock down the hall chimed ten.

“He’s self-preserving. That could easily be misconstrued as valuing life,” Aziraphale said with a shaky determination to make his friend feel a little better. “Nothing inherently Evil about it, I’d say.”

Crowley hummed, and that was all that was said about it.

* * *

God loves games, that much is true. Crowley is extremely aware of it. Aziraphale, only somewhat.

Therefore, after the first seven times Aziraphale and Crowley give Warlock miraculous rescues both keep from the other, the incidents stop.

That isn’t to say that Warlock never got into accidents that needed miracles.

No, that’s to say _very distinctly_ that Warlock stopped needing miraculous rescues from either of them.

* * *

The first time Warlock realized he had powers was the day after he turned eleven. Well, maybe a bit before that. Maybe a few weeks, months, maybe even a few years.

Warlock wasn’t certain.

As eleven-year-olds are wont to do, he didn’t wonder _where_ they came from, only that he could use them. His history, philosophy, and literature tutor, Mr. Ezra Cortese always told him about the importance of knowing where things came from. “In life, the good things almost always come from bad people who want to share it to other people as well.”

“But, isn’t sharing good?” Warlock asked. Nanny had always encouraged him to ask, and whenever Warlock told him, his maths and sciences tutor, Mr. Anthony Harrison always praised him when he said he’d asked _very_ thoroughly, like with the scientific method.

“Oh, yes, but well… Let’s say a bully—bullies are bad, remember?”

Warlock nodded.

“Say a bully took candy from someone else, then gave it to other people. Should they return the candy to the person it was stolen from or have it for themselves?”

Warlock felt stumped at that. If a bully’d given him candy, he would have just said thank you, like Mom and Brother Francis and Nanny used to tell him. “…Is it bad if they didn’t _know_ the bully stole it? Like, what if the bully lied?”

Mr. Cortese clapped his hands, a habit Warlock was very fond of, and gave him a warm grin. “That’s why, young man, you should ask of its origins. There’s nothing wrong about being certain. Ask questions, young man, and you’ll realize that the truth will be out there.”

And, well, the truth _was_ out there, and it wasn’t like Warlock didn’t _want _to know where his powers came from.

But, well.

When Professor Lavistur from the plains of Megiddo started shouting*, Warlock was scared, but not _too_scared. Bolstered by a confidence he’d earned under the tutelage of Mr. Harrison and Nanny, Warlock was sure nothing could harm him. Brother Francis and Mr. Cortese almost always told him that God would never leave him to harm either, so he was doubly certain he was safe.

[*Shrieking, actually. Hastur either mumbled himself into a ball of anxiety or shrieked someone’s ears into bleeding. No in-between, like the morals of Heaven and Hell themselves.]

A trenchcoated man-shaped being named Professor Lavistur burst into maggots and started flooding the fields, but they stopped at Warlock’s feet with a pull somewhere in his core, like a burp that wouldn’t quite reach his throat.

It wasn’t really an unusual occurrence, that feeling. Warlock frequently felt it at least three times a week even though he hadn’t eaten anything yet.

The maggots stopped at his mother’s feet, and father’s, and the Secret Service men’s. The maggots eventually dissolved into the ground with no flesh to chew on.

Warlock clutched at his stomach as the Secret Service men snatched him up and stowed him back into the trucks. He continued clutching it as memories pulled up behind his kilometre-long stare, times when he felt that pull in himself.

There was a time last week, when he wanted his birthday to cater something specific, a kind of dish he knew only Brother Francis knew how to cook. _Pull_. A time just the other day when he wanted Tasha to come to his party even though he knew she was sick just the night before. _Pull_. This morning, he knew he hadn’t packed his phone before the trip down to the field. _Pull_.

He may not have the time to figure out where this power came from, but he could still figure out how it worked*.

[*This would make Mr. Harrison very proud indeed.]

He reached into himself, not literally, trying to emulate the sensation. _Want_ was a common variable. Warlock was good with variables. He was very good in maths, to the disappointment of his father*. He closed his eyes and wished.

[*_And_ Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison.]

Then, “Mom, do you still have Nanny’s number?”

Harriet turned to him, looking shaken, then blinked. A flush rose from her cheeks to the rest of her face, but that may just be because of the desert sun and the situation they were in just now*. “Sorry, sweetie, what?”

[*In truth, it was mostly because of the venereal ends to some of her nightcaps with Ms. Ashtoreth Crowley. Those were nights she couldn’t just forget through hangovers.]

“Nanny Ashtoreth, my old nanny? Do you still have her number?”

“Y-yeah, why?”

“Can I have it? I have something to ask her before we start packing up tomorrow.”

Harriet fumbled with her purse, then handed him her phone. He’d long known the passcode now. “Sure thing, just don’t expect her to come to the manor tonight, alright? She may have plans. You can text her though.”

Warlock wasn’t listening by then.

* * *

Nanny came to the manor that night.

Well, early morning, technically*.

[*When Crowley had gotten back to the flat in Mayfair, Aziraphale in tow, he had checked his phone and decided on a whim that he’d meet up with the little tyke one last time before he left for America. Aziraphale regarded this decision with a bit of hesitance, then decided on the last minute that he’d stay in the jeep.]

She didn’t look much like the Nanny Warlock remembered. She’d cut her hair and she looked very much another side of the gender spectrum, but Warlock didn’t want to assume. Her sunglasses were still on and she still walked like the way she used to.

“Nanny?”

Nanny slunk down on the front steps next to him, “Past your bed time, young man.”

“Um, is it still Ashtoreth?”

Nanny grinned, and it made Warlock feel just a little more at ease. “I’ll tell you a little secret before you share yours, deal?”

Warlock nodded, then tried to stifle the urge to giggle like he used to when Nanny got like this.

“Remember when I left and you got tutors instead?”

Warlock nodded again, then inclined his head. _Pull_.

He stood abruptly, careful not to note the way Nanny flinched at the sudden movement. He brought his hand to his mouth to avoid waking the Secret Service men by the front door. “_You’re_ Mr. Harrison?”

“Now hold on, I hadn’t even told you yet.” Nanny’s—Mr. Harrison’s brows furrowed, crossing his arms. “What are you not telling me, little one?”

“I—no, hold on, what’s your _real_ name then. Crowley or—”

“Anthony Crowley, pleasure to meet you.”

Warlock laughed but it felt and sounded a bit hysterical. This day was getting weirder by the second. “I already _know_ you, Nanny.”

“Right, so what’s this all about, calling me up at odd hours to ask me things you already know?”

Warlock sniffed, an action that reminded Crowley very much of his angel. “Well, really it’s… I have powers.”

“Excuse me, you _what?_”

“I-I know, I can’t believe it either, but you and, well. Really, it’s just you. _You_ taught me that when I don’t know something I should ask and I just found out I had these this afternoon and somehow I got your number from Mom and managed to convince her and Dad to let me stay here in England and—”

“You _what?!_”

“I—shouldn’t I have? Should I still go to America?”

Crowley pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his temples. “No, hold on. Let me just. _ Angel _ , I need you here by the front porch, no arguing, just _ go _.” He looked up at Warlock at that, serpentine eyes glowing in the dark. Warlock found them at home with all the weird stuff happening this evening. “You don’t know where these powers came from. Do you want them?”

Warlock blinked. “Do I want—shouldn’t I? It seems like a gift.”

“Alright, hold on a moment. Remember Brother Francis? Mr. Cortese? Here he is.”

Footsteps on the gravel brought Warlock’s attention to the cream-clad Francis—Cortese? He looked just a bit frazzled and annoyed. He took one look at Warlock and the state of Crowley’s face, then schooled his expression into one of concern. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Holy shit.”

“Language,” intoned both Cortese and Crowley, making Warlock flinch.

“Sorry, reflex. I didn’t—What’s _ your _ name then, if it’s not Brother Francis or Ezra Cortese?”

Cortese glared down at Crowley. “You _ told _ him?”

“Well, he has _ powers _ , angel, and if I recall correctly, _ he’s _ not supposed to!”

“He has powers?!”

Warlock _ pulled _.

Cortese made a sound as if he had the breath punched out of him, then looked, horrified, down at Warlock. “Did you just do that?”

“I didn’t want to yell,” Warlock croaked. “I didn’t know I had powers until this morning. I just wanted answers. Please.”

Crowley huffed. “His name’s Aziraphale. Do you want the short version or the long version, because I think I know why you have those and I really do want to get back to my last question.”

“The short version? Maybe? In case you still want me to go to America by six.”

Aziraphale grumbled, “It’s two in the morning, that’s absurd, you should be asleep.”

“Angel.”

“Oh, alright.”

Crowley sighed, then pulled Warlock back down on the steps. “Aziraphale and I aren’t… human. You are one of the only living people to know that, but that doesn’t matter. Remember when we used to teach you a lot about Revelations?”

Warlock nodded.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Well…”

“We were trying to stop Armageddon,” Aziraphale explained, cutting off Crowley’s loss of words. “I’m an angel, he’s a demon. We were tasked keep it going but we decided not to. That was _ eleven _ years ago, dear.”

“The thing is,” Crowley cut in. “You’re not the Antichrist. We thought you were but there was… a switch and we didn’t figure it out until it was too late. None of your parents knew. You—We don’t know whose child you are, but the Antichrist was supposed to come here, be raised as the son of the American Cultural Attaché. With us so far, love?”

Warlock nodded, feeling his heart sink.

“I’m really sorry you had to find out this way,” Crowley said. “But everything we’ve taught you growing up is real anyway, so I hope you know that we guided you with our best intentions.

“_We’re_ sorry, dear,” Aziraphale added, kneeling before them. “We honestly didn’t know. But, well, we stopped Armageddon!”

Warlock blinked, then looked blearily up at Aziraphale. “Really? But isn’t’ it—”

“Part of the Great Plan?” Crowley grinned. Warlock nodded; eyes wide with wonder.

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, maybe we should reconsider just who wrote that damned book, eh? God’s plan is ineffable.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means jack shit, darling,” Aziraphale intoned, earning a sharp laugh from Crowley. “It means no one’s supposed to understand it, much less be able to write it down like in Revelations. So, the world didn’t end today.”

Warlock smiled. “That’s great news!” He yawned. “Good thing.”

“Well, we have to wrap this up, certainly,” Crowley grumbled. “So, since we believed for eleven years straight that you _were_ the Antichrist, well, our magic may have tampered with your reality.”

“What’s that mean?” Warlock asked, glancing at the way Aziraphale brought his hand to his mouth in shock, then at the way Crowley scratched at the back of his head. “Nanny—uh, Mr. Crowley, what’s that mean?”

“It means, dear, that we seemed to have given you powers because we believed you had them,” Aziraphale explained. “Oh Heavens, we’re terribly sorry.”

“Do you still want them, love?” asked Crowley. “I asked you earlier. If you think it’s a gift, then what do we do?”

“Oh! I should, uh… Thank you?”

Aziraphale chuckled bringing out a hand to pat Warlock on the head, “I think Crowley means, do you think we should take them back? Or do you want to keep them?”

“Well… they _did_ save my life earlier. Some guy who turned into maggots. He was especially mad about something _you_ did, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley grumbled, “Hastur.”

“If that’s the case, I think there’s not much to it,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Your powers are—oh, you’ve read and watched Spider-Man, you know the whole thing about responsibility, yes?”

Warlock nodded. The idea of being even somewhat like Spider-Man pleased him very much. “I’ll use them with _great_ responsibility, Mr. Azi-ra-phale. Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, that’s alright, dear.”

Crowley dusted the dirt from his hands, then pushed to stand. “Well, that’s it then. From your very own godfathers. You have my number; I’ll text you the angel’s landline. You _better_ go to America with your mother, young man, or the _real_ Antichrist will have my ass then send you there myself.”

“What’s he like?” Warlock asked, because he always liked making new friends. “He’s my age, right?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a look, then smiled.

“He’s very normal,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged, “Bit of a troublemaker, but he’s a good kid. You’d get along. I’ll tell him you were curious, yeah?”

Warlock yawned again, then stood to give them one last hug before watching his old Nanny and gardener walk off the premises. “Bye, Nanny! Bye, Brother Francis!”

“Mind how you go, dear boy,” Aziraphale threw over his and Crowley’s linked arms. Warlock saw that their coats were ripped by the shoulders, their fingers also linked as they held hands to the gate.

“You as well!”

* * *

“That _was_ the best course, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale asked as he buckled in just as Crowley floored it. He was a bit worried, but it drained out of his voice by the last word, exhaustion finally taking him. Crowley would drive them back to Mayfair and they’d sleep off the effects of coming a bit too close to, well, Armageddon and the like.

Crowley grinned, remembering the first time he asked that. He swerved to hit a passing skunk. “If it wasn’t, the Almighty wouldn’t have given him the option, angel. We already know how this works. The rest of it is out of our hands.”

Aziraphale huffed, but his heart wasn’t in it, his smile warming the tone of his usual uppity demeanour. “If you say so.”

And that was all that was said about it.

**Author's Note:**

> shout at me on [tumblr](http://stubbornjerk.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/stubborn_jerk). i'm bored all the time.
> 
> Edit (8 Jan 2020): Guess which idiot thought it was Astoreth instead of Ashthoreth.
> 
> comments are appreciated!


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